


grew up fast, grew up mean

by ceserabeau



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Alternate Universe- Southern Gothic, Americana, Anal Fingering, Light BDSM, M/M, Rimming
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-19
Updated: 2015-03-19
Packaged: 2018-03-18 14:25:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,788
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3572984
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ceserabeau/pseuds/ceserabeau
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Arthur glances over his shoulder, and the light reflects off the sharp line of his nose, the curve of his cheek. He looks like one of the boys Eames used to see on street corners, curled up in old men’s laps in clubs; the kind of boy his ma always told him to stay away from.</p>
            </blockquote>





	grew up fast, grew up mean

**Author's Note:**

> This started as a snippet based off a [fanmix](http://velificantes.tumblr.com/post/52260270659/raise-hell-a-southern-gothic-au-mix-for%20) and accidentally got a lot longer. Kinda Southern gothic, kinda not. Unbeta'd. Title from _Old Number Seven_ by The Devil Makes Three.

Eames drives like a bat out of hell away from New York and the mess he’s made for himself. He has nothing to his name besides the car he’s driving, the clothes on his back, and the stack of paintings that don’t belong to him.

He goes all night and all the next day, taking the highways, going at 90 in the desperate hope that he can get away fast enough, but Yusuf’s car is a shitty old thing, held together by string and a prayer. It lasts Eames until he crosses the Mississippi River somewhere near Baton Rouge, then promptly gives up the ghost and leaves him stranded in some podunk town with barely five thousand people living in it.

A truck overtakes Eames as he gets out, sweat prickling along his forehead and the back of his neck from the midday sun. The smoke from under the hood is thick and black, and he kicks at the tyre in frustration, half expecting it to burst. When he checks his phone there’s no service; he’s stuck in a dead zone, of course.

“Need some help, sir?”

Eames turns to find that the truck has pulled up a little further along the road, and there’s a man in uniform walking back towards him, hat pulled down low over his eyes. The obvious star of a sheriff’s badge glints on his chest.

“Uh,” he says inelegantly. He wonders if he should do an accent, but then he remembers the time in Boston where he couldn’t quite keep his vowels in check and thinks better of it. “My car seems to have given up on me. You don’t happen to know a good mechanic?”

The sheriff tilts his hat back with one finger like a cowboy in a Western. “Might do,” he says, all and Eames can hear the slow drawl to his words.

“Don’t suppose you also know if there’s somewhere to stay?”

The sheriff looks him up and down, takes in his suit, his shiny shoes. “You’re not from around here,” he says, and smiles, flashing teeth. “I’ll give you a ride into town. Mechanic’s closed on Sundays but let’s see if we can’t set you up somewhere.”

The sheriff’s name is Cobb, Dom Cobb. He’s a tall man with watery eyes and a rounding belly, the kind of deep-set wrinkles that Eames associates with multiple children that keep him up at night. He drives with one hand on the wheel and the other wrapped around the window frame, thumb smudging prints against the glass.

“I can’t imagine you get a lot of people coming through here,” Eames says as they roll through the town, kicking up dust in their wake.

Cobb shrugs. “Not since the highway got built. You’re probably first newcomer we’ve has in a few years.” He gives Eames a sidelong glance. “You mind me asking what you’re doing way out here?”

Eames turns his head out the window, looks at the white-washed houses and the low-hanging trees, the church with its steeple reaching up into the bright blue sky. He can feel the lie building, mind carefully slotting the pieces together, and when he opens his mouth it springs to life, fully formed on his lips.

“I’m a writer,” he says. “I’ve just been driving around trying to find inspiration.” He glances over at Cobb and his curious look. “Do you believe in fate, Sherriff?”

“I believe in a lot of things.”

“I think maybe my car was trying to tell me something by breaking down here.” Eames scratches his nose, puts on his best guileless look. “I wonder, Sherriff – what you say if I wanted to stay in this town of yours?

Cobb snorts. “I’d tell you there’re better places to stay. Not far from here to Baton Rouge.”

“But if I wanted to stay,” Eames tries. “Do you know anyone willing to rent a house?”

Cobb raises an eyebrow. “I might know someone,” he says, and just like that Eames finds himself with somewhere to stay.

-

The house Eames rents isn’t what he expected. It’s old, all strangely painted walls and creaky floors. His bedroom has lace curtains, and there’s a clawfoot tub in the bathroom that’s so rusted it looks like it might fall apart if he risks standing in it. The living room takes up most of the downstairs, a huge room with furniture that coughs up great clouds of dust whenever Eames sits on it.

This is small town Louisiana; no one new ever comes here, so Eames is a novelty. The neighbours bring him casseroles and pies, fill his fridge with things that Eames doesn’t want to eat. They sit for hours at the kitchen table on the pretence of getting to know him, but Eames grew up in a house full of nosy old ladies: he knows fishing for information when he sees it.

“Tell me about the town,” he says, trying to distract them. “Tell me about the people.”

They chatter away while he makes them another round of iced tea, and he only tunes back in when one of them says, “And then there’s Arthur.”

“Arthur?” Eames brings them their drinks, sits at the table with them. “Tell me about him.”

“Stay away from him,” they say. “He’s a strange boy. All alone down there, with nothing but ghosts for company.”

“And where does he live?” Eames asks.

“That house down the way,” they say, and he knows they mean the only other house on this road: a rundown place with tiles falling off the roof, the one where the curtains twitch in suspicion every time he passes.

“How interesting,” he says and smiles his most charming smile.

The neighbours keep talking well into the afternoon, chattering about their husbands and their children and the reverend and the high school. By the time they leave the sun is well below the horizon. The fridge is full and Eames eats mashed potatoes from a Tupperware container on the couch, flicking through the channels on the TV in the hopes of finding something worth watching.

Yusuf calls when he’s halfway through a _Dallas_ rerun. “Saito sent someone by looking for you,” he says and Eames nearly drops the mash on the floor. “Apparently they’ve been talking to all your acquaintances.”

“ _And_?”

Yusuf hums distractedly. “Well, I can’t speak for anyone else, but I said I didn’t know where you’d disappeared off to.”

Eames heaves a sigh of relief. “Thanks, mate. Let’s just hope this doesn’t go on too long.” He peers around the room, at the dirty curtains and the water stain on the ceiling. “I’m not sure I’m going to make it out here.”

“You’re going to have to,” Yusuf replies. “You stole thirty million dollars worth of paintings, Eames. That’s not the sort of thing men like Saito give up on – or forgive.”

Eames sighs; Yusuf’s right, of course. He glances at where he’s got half a dozen impressionists propped up against the wall, Pissarro and Liebermann and Robinson looking out of place against the peeling wallpaper. Thirty million dollars worth of paintings, and he still can’t get a house with a roof that doesn’t leak and floorboards that don’t creak.

“So where did you end up?” Yusuf asks. In the background Eames can hear the chink of cutlery against china.

“I’ll send you a postcard.”

Yusuf snorts. “Sure. What’s it like?”

“Too bloody hot,” Eames tells him. “Everyone speaks funny. And that car you gave me is a piece of shit.”

“Oh, come now,” Yusuf says, “It’s fine. Just needs a little fine-tuning. I’m sure you can find the time.”

Eames hangs up before he can do something stupid like throw the phone at the wall, and takes another bite of mash to chase the bitter taste of anxiety from his mouth.

-

This town is the very definition of a one horse town. Main Street only has a few businesses: a movie theatre, a hardware store, a sheriff’s office. But there is a diner, tucked away at the edge of town where it starts to fade into the fields, that Eames finds himself at once a week when the house gets too claustrophobic. He sits in the booths with their squeaky blue vinyl covers, drinks endless cups of strong coffee and eats the best omelettes he’s had in years.

The waitress is a pretty girl, dark-haired, a high school senior desperately trying to save money for college. Her nametag says Ariadne and Eames thinks of mazes and monsters, of red thread leading the way home. Her uniform is bubblegum pink but where all the other waitresses wear sneakers, she wears brown leather brogues.

“So,” she asks the third time Eames comes in, “What do you do?”

Eames takes a big bite of his omelette. “I’m a writer,” he says around a mouthful.

Ariadne raises an eyebrow. “Someone I might’ve read?”

Eames shrugs. “I write under a pen name.” When Ariadne opens her mouth, he holds up a hand. “And no, I won’t tell you who. I’d rather keep my being here on the down low, if you know what I mean. Don’t want any reporters showing up.”

Ariadne’s mouth curves up in a disbelieving smile. “Well,” she says, snapping her gum, “Maybe you can make me a character in your next book then.”

“Oh, darling,” Eames says and winks, “I already have.”

He walks home after he’s finished and when he gets there, sticky from the afternoon heat, there’s a boy sitting on the stoop, propped up on his elbows with his legs kicked out in front of him.

“Can I help you?” Eames calls, stuttering to a stop at the bottom of the path.

The boy tilts his head curiously at Eames. He’s wearing a leather jacket, oversized with the collar turned up, and a pair of sleek sunglasses that hide his eyes. His ears stick out awkwardly from beneath his slicked back hair.

“You live here?” the boy asks, and his voice is tinged with that slow Southern drawl that Eames is getting used to around here.

“Just moved in,” he says. He approaches cautiously, stopping just out of reach of the boy’s boots. “Who are you?”

The boy reaches up to sweep the sunglasses from his face. This close he looks older than Eames thought. There are fine lines at the corner of his eyes as he squints in the sunlight.

“You got a name?”

Eames blinks at him. It feels like this conversation is going nowhere. That happens sometimes here, especially when the heat makes everything syrupy and slow, but this time he’s fairly sure the boy is doing it deliberately.  

“Eames,” he says. “I’m Eames.”

The boy nods once, then sits up, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees. He folds his hands neatly together and Eames takes a moment to appreciate his long fingers, the way they look against his dark hair when he runs his hands it.

“You gon’ be here long?” the boy asks.

Eames shrugs. “Probably for a little bit. Why? “

The boy nods again and finally gets up off the stoop. Eames thinks for a second he’s going to leave, but the boy just stands next to him, peering up into Eames’ face like he’s a puzzle to solve. His eyes are dark and unfathomable.

A silence stretches between them, stifling like the heat of a summer’s day, until Eames takes a shaky breath and says, “Did you want something?”

The boy’s mouth curls upwards, and Eames sees the way his cheeks dimple, almost sweet. “Watch out for the neighbours,” he says, like that makes any sense, then turns sharply and strides away to the street.

Eames watches him go, confused. He’s long come to accept that this is town is full of strange people, but this boy is stranger than most.

It isn’t until the boy’s on the sidewalk that Eames realises who he might be. “Hey,” he calls out, “Are you Arthur?”

The boy turns back, looking Eames up and down slowly. “Might be,” he drawls. “What’s it to you?”

He doesn’t wait for Eames’ answer, just turns away and starts walking. His boots make soft sounds in the dirt and great clouds of dust billow around him in the dry, autumn air. There’s something about the slope of his shoulders beneath the dark coat against the bright blue of the sky that sets Eames on edge.

“Nice to meet you,” he calls out, trying to tamp down on the sudden spike of anxiety.

Down the street, the boy laughs and leans into the road to spit.

-

Eames likes mornings out here, the quiet stillness in the air. In the city it was always noisy no matter what time of day, but here in the countryside there’s nothing but birds and animals, the swish of the wind in the trees.

He runs on these mornings, tracing well-worn routes along the edge of corn fields, the dusty banks of the roads. It’s June so the fields are thick and green, the ears starting to glisten yellow between the green leaves. He’s been here a month, and it’s finally starting to feel like it could be permanent.

It’s one of these mornings when he runs past the house at the end of the street, the one he’s been warned away from: Arthur’s house, and the man himself is sitting on the steps. He waves as Eames passes, beckoning him over.

“You want a drink?” he calls when Eames stops. There’s a beer in his hand, sweating in the early morning heat, the rest of the six-pack on the boards by his feet.

“Bit early to be drinking,” Eames points out.

Arthur’s smile is wry. “You ain’t been out here long enough,” he says, and tips his head back to drink, exposing the long pale line of his throat.

Eames watches him cautiously. It’s early enough that Arthur’s not properly dressed, a t-shirt and sweats instead of jeans and leather, bare feet against the wood. He looks younger like this, but Eames remembers the warning: _stay away from him_ , and knows better than to be taken in.

It takes him a while to figure out what’s different from the last time Eames saw him. “You cut your hair,” he says.

Arthur reaches up to touch it, where the slicked back style has been replaced by shorter spiky strands. “Oh,” he says, surprised. “Guess I did.”

“You didn’t like it long?”

“It’s easier short,” Arthur tells him. “Stops people tugging on it.”

Eames spares a second to wonder who’s been tugging on it, before Arthur sets the beer down on the decking, tilts his head at Eames curiously. “You always walk everywhere?” he asks.

“The mechanics have my car,” Eames tells him. “They say they’re fixing it but it seems to be taking them forever.”

Arthur shakes his head. “They’re always like that,” he says. “Wouldn’t know a carburettor from a crankshaft.”

Eames blinks at him. “You know something about cars?”

Arthur shrugs, takes another sip. “My pa used to fix ‘em up. He was the real mechanic in this town. “

“If I was to fix it myself,” Eames says, “would you – would you help me? I probably shouldn’t do it on my own. Might end up blowing myself up.” Arthur stares, for so long that Eames thinks he’s going to say no. “I can pay you”.

Arthur’s face twists. “I don’t want your money,” he snaps angrily. Then he softens, blinking at Eames. “I’ll help.”

“Great,” Eames says, surprised. “Thanks.”

Arthur nods curtly. He stands, grabbing the beers, and heads for the door, but in the doorway he pauses, glancing over his shoulder at Eames. “I’ll come by when they bring the car back.”

Eames nods. “Sure, I’ll call you.” He pauses, considering Arthur, his rundown house. “Do you have a phone?”

“I’ll come by,” Arthur says again.

“And how will you know when the car’s back?” Eames calls.

But Arthur’s already turning away, dismissing him. “Enjoy your run,” he says, and the door shuts behind him with a slam.

-

“Say, love,” Eames says to Ariadne the next time he’s in the diner, “Do you know Arthur?”

She pauses where she’s leaning over to fill up his cup, lips pursed like she’s thinking. “You mean Arthur Landry?” Eames shrugs; he has no idea how many Arthurs there are in this town. “Tall, dark hair, always wears a leather jacket?”

Eames snorts. “That sounds like him.”

Ariadne smiles, a shrewd thing. “Sure, I know him. Everyone round here knows him. He was in my sister’s grade at school.”

“What can you tell me about him?” Eames asks.

“Well,” Ariadne says, “As far as I know he’s lived in this town his whole life. Ain’t got no parents – his momma split when he was little and his daddy was a drunk. Used to beat him, I think, before he died.”

“When was that?”

“Oh, maybe six – seven years ago now.” Ariadne taps her nails against the glass of the coffee pot. “I think I was in sixth grade so he must’ve been a senior? He dropped straight out of school after, never finished.”

Eames raises an eyebrow, curious. “Not smart enough?”

Ariadne shakes her head. “No, he’s plenty smart. My sister always said she thought he was going to be valedictorian or something.” She leans in conspiratorially. “I think she had a crush on him.”

“So he hasn’t got anyone? He’s all alone in that house?” When Ariadne nods, Eames finds himself frowning. “No family? No friends?”

“Not really,” she tells him. “Most people leave him alone. Why are you so interested?”

“I ran into him the other day,” Eames admits. “Normally I’m good at reading people but I couldn’t quite get a fix on him.”

Ariadne shrugs. “Yeah, he’s always been like that, at least as far as I can remember.” She frowns suddenly, narrowing her eyes at him. “Look, if he’s coming round he probably wants something from you. Might not be a good thing. He’s, uh – he’s not exactly the best guy. Not that I’m telling you to steer clear, just maybe be careful.”

“I can take care of myself, darling,” Eames tells her reassuringly.

Ariadne just smiles. “I’m sure you can,” she says. “But I’ll be honest with you, Mr. Eames – you’re the most interesting thing to happen to this town in a while. I’d hate to see you leave because of someone like Arthur Landry.”

-

The guys from the mechanic shop bring the car back, and it sits in Eames’ garage, silently mocking him as he circles it slowly, waiting for it to start smoking again.

“I could’ve been in Vegas by now,” he tells it, and kicks the tyre. “I could’ve been in Mexico City. I could’ve been in _Panama_ , but you had to break down in a motherfucking cornfield and now I’m stuck here for the foreseeable future.”

The car doesn’t say anything, but behind Eames someone snorts. When he turns, Arthur’s leaning against the wall, an amused look on his face.

Eames raises an eyebrow. “What, you never talk to yourself?”

Arthur shrugs. “Only when no one can hear me,” he says.

He steps forward into the garage, and the dust comes in with him, swirling around his feet. He seems tense, wary, an intruder creeping into Eames’ territory. There’s the shadow of a bruise on his cheek, fading brown in the hollow.

“You piss someone off?” Eames asks, gesturing at his face.

Arthur doesn’t answer; instead he steps past Eames to peer at the wall, the outline of the mural Eames has started to sketch there. “You do this?” He glances over his shoulder at Eames. “You an artist?”

Eames shrugs. “It’s a hobby.”

Arthur touches the wall gently, almost reverently, fingers brushing over the cityscape that’s starting to grow. “Some hobby,” he says quietly, then straightens. “So, we doing this or what?”

“Of course.” Eames steps forward, holds out a hand. “We didn’t really get introduced properly. I’m Eames.”

“I remember.” When Eames doesn’t say anything, Arthur rolls his eyes. “Jesus, fine. I’m Arthur.”

Eames finds himself smiling. “Thank you, darling.”

Arthur levels a sharp look at him. “Don’t call me that.”

“Easy,” Eames says, although he’s surprised Arthur isn’t swinging for him. He’s had enough run in with country boys over the years to know that’s their normal reaction. “I didn’t mean anything by it.”

Arthur just raises an eyebrow. “Sure, you didn’t,” he says, and turns to look at the car, eyes sharp and appraising. “This is a Skyline.”

Eames shrugs. “Might be. All I know about it is it breaks down easily.”

Arthur snorts. He opens the door, peering inside at the interior. “You ain’t treating her right then.”

“It’s a her now?” Eames frowns as Arthur pulls the door open wider, and starts to move. “Hey, what are you –”

But it’s too late, Arthur’s already in the car. He looks at home there: slicked back hair, leather jacket, hands wrapped tight around the steering wheel: a real bad boy. Slowly he glances over his shoulder at Eames, still standing there, still watching.

“Bet this drives like a dream,” he says.

Eames snorts. “Not on dirt roads, it doesn’t. Give me a Land Rover any day.”

Arthur shakes his head, mutters something that sounds like _idiot_. “Not many of these cars over here,” he says. “They were in video games. A load of crazy rich people imported them so they could pretend they were in a game.”

“You know a lot about them.”

Arthur shrugs. “My pa was a mechanic,” he says again.

“Well,” Eames says with a smile, “Let’s hope he taught you enough to help my sorry arse.”

The look Arthur gives him is sharp enough to cut glass. “Taught me plenty,” he says, and his voice is cold.

Eames hesitates, uncertain. In the seat Arthur looks tense and unhappy, head tilted back against the seat. His eyes slip closed and Eames has to do a double take: even feigning sleep, Arthur looks so different, youthful, all the hard edges smoothed away. Then his eyes flutter open again, and the moment is gone, everything back in its place.

“Come on,” Eames says, and Arthur turns to fix him with that dark, steady gaze. “Out. The car isn’t going to fix itself.”

Arthur huffs out a laugh. “You never know,” he says. “Out here things got a way of working themselves out.”

For a second Eames wonders what he means, but he loses his train of thought when Arthur starts to get out of the car. Under the bright lights, he’s a femme fatale, all deadly sinuous grace, designed to catch attention. Eames drags his eyes up Arthur’s body: from the scuffed leather of his boots to the frayed hems of his jeans, the way the fabric fights tight around his calves, his thighs; to his stomach, hidden beneath the thin shirt, the flannel, the jacket, then Arthur’s neck, the line of his jaw and nose and brow, his slicked back hair.

“What you lookin’ at?” he snaps when he catches Eames’ gaze lingering on the soft swell of his lip.

“Nothing, darling,” Eames says, just to see if Arthur will object again. “Just you.”

Arthur’s mouth twists; whether it’s amused or irritated, Eames can’t tell. He turns away, and Eames watches as he rifles through the toolbox, shoulders tight.

“Come on,” he says, and holds out a wrench to Eames. “Car ain’t gonna fix itself.”

-

Arthur comes and goes, slipping in and out of Eames’ life like a thief in the night. Sometimes he doesn’t see Arthur for days, weeks, so long that Eames wonders if he’s dead in a ditch somewhere. But other times he wakes up in the morning and Arthur’s in the kitchen making coffee or in the garage with his head under the hood. He comes back from the diner or a run and Arthur’s beckoning him from down the street, dragging Eames up onto the porch for a beer.

Normally Eames leaves once he finishes his beer, or they finish the six pack between them, but one day Eames gets up to leave and Arthur shakes his head.

“Got more in the kitchen,” he says, and leaves the door open when he goes inside.

Eames takes the invitation, trailing Arthur down the dimly lit corridor and into a spacious living room. It’s tidier than Eames expected, but everything is coated in a thin layer of dust, drifting in from outside. Eames has the same problem himself, but where he tries his best to sweep all the dirt out, Arthur apparently doesn’t bother.

“How do you manage?” he asks. “Out here, all by yourself…”

 “Lived here all my life,” Arthur says, voice muffled. When Eames glances through the doorway to the kitchen he sees Arthur bent over, half-hidden behind the bulk of the fridge door. “I know how to take care of the place. “

“And you’re doing a fantastic job, darling,” Eames calls as he sweeps his fingers through the dust on the windowsill. “How do you pay for the upkeep?”

There’s a long pause before Arthur says, “S’mine, free and clear.”

“Must be nice,” Eames replies, “Having a home,” even though he knows from the empty picture frames, the bare shelves, the faint air of desolation that this is no more a home than Eames’ house is for him

There’s no answer except for the sound of drawers opening and closing, the clink of bottles and the sudden fizz of them opening. Eames waits, but Arthur doesn’t appear, so he wanders around the living room, sticking his nose in all the places he’s sure it doesn’t belong.

Above the fireplace is a painting, hanging crooked on a nail, and Eames pauses in front of it. It looks familiar: a little black girl in a blue dress next to a baby in a green carriage. The background is the same mustard yellow of Arthur’s curtains. There’s a name in the corner, a chicken-scratch that Eames reads as _Johnson_.

A reproduction, Eames decides, a copy done in cheap acrylics and oils. _I could do one just as good_ , he thinks, but when he touches it, it doesn’t feel cheap. It feels like a Goya, like a Gauguin; it feels real.

He jerks his hand away when Arthur swears in the other room over the sound of something clattering in to the sink. “You okay, love?” he calls out.

Again no answer, but Eames steps away from the painting anyway. He turns, peering around the room. The vase in the corner catches his attention, blue and white pattern out of place against Arthur’s dirty windows, dusty floor. He recognises it immediately; he’d be an idiot not to: fourteenth century, Ming dynasty, worth a cool one million in the right hands. He glances over his shoulder nervously, as if Arthur will be there, watching him.

“Wherever did you get this?” he asks, trying to sound as casual as possible even though his palms are sweating, fingers itching with the sudden desire to steal.

Arthur comes in, beers in hand, to see what he’s talking about. He freezes instantly, body going tight with tension. “Flea market,” he says, voice carefully blank.

He stares at Eames and Eames stares right back, both of them watching each other, the air in the room suddenly cautious and tense. Arthur’s lying, Eames knows that much, and he knows Arthur knows, but he’s loathe to break whatever fragile peace they’re created between them.

“You’ll have to take me sometime,” he says eventually, and reaches out for the beer in Arthur’s hand, careful to put a disarming smile on his face.

Arthur lets Eames take the beer from his hand, but his mouth is still pressed into a tight line. When he opens his mouth, Eames is certain he’s going to tell him to get out, but instead Arthur just says, “I’m making dinner,” and turns back to the kitchen.

“Enough for two?” Eames calls to his retreating back.

The gumbo Arthur makes is enough for two, enough for ten: chicken and sausage and vegetables in a thick sauce, filling the kitchen with a strong scent that makes Eames’ mouth water. It’s delicious, better than anything Eames has ever made for himself; just the right amount of sweetness and spice, lingering on the tongue long after the food is gone.

“You’re going to have to teach my how to make this, darling,” Eames says as he scrapes the bowl clean.

Arthur raises an eyebrow. “I don’t think you’ve earned that yet,” he says, and laughs.

Eames decides he likes this: Arthur with his guard down, without the air of danger that he wears like armour. This is the Arthur in quiet moment; happy, relaxed, leaning back in his chair with sauce still staining the corner of his mouth. It’s a good look on him.

Eames helps clear away the plates, store the leftovers. When everything’s put away, Arthur digs through the cabinets until he finds a bottle of the whiskey.

“Ain’t got clean glasses,” he says, only half apologetic. When Eames pulls a face, he laughs. “What, you told old to do shots?”

“Who are you calling old?” Eames retorts.

It draws another laugh from Arthur. “You telling me you’re not?”

Eames just shakes his head. “I’m not _that_ much older than you,” he says, and it’s true: even though the five years between them should be an age, more often than not it feels like mere seconds.

“Old man,” Arthur teases. He unscrews the bottle and raises it to his lips, winking at Eames over the rim. “Dirty old man.”

He takes a long swallow, and Eames watches his throat move, captivated. When Arthur’s done, he pushes the bottle across the table to Eames, and his eyes flash, teasing, daring.

“I’m going to regret this in the morning,” Eames says, but he picks it up anyway and puts it to his lips.

By the time they finish the bottle, Eames is lightheaded, relaxed in a way he hasn’t been since he got here. In the next chair, Arthur is slumped low, ass almost hanging off the seat. His legs are sprawled out, stretched so wide that his knee nudges against Eames’ whenever he shifts. His eyes are hooded, head tilted over the back of the chair so that his neck stretches out sensuously.

Eames tries to be subtle about the way he’s watching, but Arthur senses the weight of his eyes and turns to meet Eames’ gaze. He doesn’t look irritated, just amused, a tiny smile playing on his lips.

“You think I’m pretty?” he drawls.

Eames feels himself flush, covers it with a laugh. “I’m not going to stroke your ego, darling”

Arthur’s smile turns sharp, interested. “Ain’t my ego needs stroking,” he says, and his voice is low and throaty from the whiskey. He sounds like sex and Eames blushes again.

Arthur suddenly sits up straight in his chair and Eames is surprised at how close they are now, so close he can see the dark expanse of Arthur’s pupils in the low light, the slickness of Arthur’s lip when his tongue darts out to wet it. Everything feels hot and syrupy-slow, and when Eames inhales it rasps wetly in his lungs like the air is thick and humid. His head spins.

“Arthur,” he starts, then stops, suddenly struck dumb, unable to figure out if this is really happening or if it’s all in his head, too much whiskey and not enough sleep.

Arthur reaches up to grasp the collar of Eames’ t-shirt, fingers slipping under to touch skin, the ridge of his collarbone. “What you thinking about?” he asks quietly.

The words hang between them, heavy and serious, and Eames takes a shaky breath. “Fuck,” he breathes. He sways towards Arthur, away again. His eyes slip closed. “Is this –”

“’S whatever you want,” Arthur says, breath ghosting over his lips.

Eames opens his eyes. Arthur is right there, mouth open and soft, eyes hooded and dark, but his expression in stoic, entirely unreadable, like he isn’t feeling the same sudden desperation that Eames is. It’s like being doused with ice water.

“I should go,” Eames says.

Arthur just nods, lets his hand fall away. “Got to get your beauty sleep?” he teases. The look in his eyes is soft, almost fond.

Eames dredges up a smile. “Something like that.”

Arthur nods again. “I’ll walk you out.”

“No need, love.” Eames carefully gets to his feet, and Arthur rises with him but doesn’t try to stop him. “I can find my own way. “

He manages to get across the kitchen on shaky legs, down the hall to the door. But when he puts his hand on the cool metal of the knob, he glances back over his shoulder and sees Arthur leaning over the table, backlit by the dim kitchen lights, head bowed as if in prayer.

The light glints off his skin, his hair, and he looks otherworldly. He looks like the biggest mistake Eames ever could make.

“Don’t go there,” Eames tells himself. When he opens the door, the cold night air creeps in and he shivers.

-

Time drags by, the heat of summer slipping into autumn’s crispness. Arthur keeps working on Eames’ car, keeps pulling his vanishing act, and in the indeterminable stretches of absence, Eames finds himself painting, filling in the mural with the bright, bold colours that remind him of New York, of home.

Most days though, he opens up the hood of the car and messes around with the hoses and wires, twisting and pulling and tinkering according to the manual Arthur managed to dredge up from somewhere. It never seems to work, but it makes him feel useful nonetheless.

He goes out there some nights too, when he wakes from a dream of promised violence to the sound of crickets and the wind in the trees. He stands in the halo of white light and stares into the bowels of the engine and tries to will away the fear that brings a bitter taste to his mouth.

One of these nights, Arthur comes by, hovering just outside the circle of light, face cast in shadow. “Need a hand?” he asks, and his voice is dry and raspy.

“Sure,” Eames says. “Pass me that wrench?”

He sticks his head under the door and eventually Arthur’s hand appears, the wrench clenched tightly between those long fingers. Eames murmurs his thanks, and busies himself with the battery as Arthur leans against the door, fingers drumming on the roof.

“You gon’ be doing this all night?” he asks after a while.

Eames smiles to himself. “Why? You got something better in mind?”

Arthur doesn’t answer, so Eames finally pulls himself out to look at him. He makes a surprised noise when he does: Arthur is wearing that same old leather jacket, but this time he has a black eye, bruised cheekbone, split lip, blood smeared across forehead and cheek and chin. His arm is cradled protectively round his middle, and his breath hiccups dangerously.

“Jesus,” Eames hisses, stepping close so he can tilt Arthur’s head up to the light. “What the hell happened? Are you okay?”

A frown slips onto Arthur’s face. “Yeah,” he says slowly, as if confused; “Yeah, Eames, I’m okay.”

Eames peers at him. “Are you sure?”

“Yeah, I’m sure.”

Eames gently touches the wounds, the bruises. He expects Arthur to flinch away, but instead Arthur just wraps careful fingers around Eames’ wrists and lets him prod and poke to his heart’s content.

“What happened?” Eames asks again.

“I got punched,” Arthur croaks. His throat bobs as he swallows, and Eames thinks might be the first time Arthur’s ever told him the truth. “It’s not that bad. You should see the other guy.”

Eames snorts. “I don’t want to see the other guy. Let’s get you inside, okay? I’ll clean you up.”

He tries to step back but Arthur’s grip on him goes iron-strong. “Don’t,” he grits out, and turns his face into Eames’ hand, butting against his fingers in a way that has to hurt. “Fuck, just –”

“Arthur,” Eames says. His voice seems too loud in the still silence of the garage and Arthur’s blood is slick beneath his fingertips. “Arthur, what are you doing?”

Arthur’s eyelashes flutter, dark against his cheek. “I want –” he starts, then pauses, licks his lips. When his eyes open again, Eames can see the huge pools of his pupils, ringed with a tiny circle of brown. “Fuck, just –”

He makes a frustrated noise and darts forward to crash his mouth against Eames’. Copper explodes on his tongue: _this is Arthur’s blood_ , Eames thinks after a second; _this is what Arthur’s blood tastes like_. He licks at the cut on Arthur’s lip to taste it again.

He’s not surprised when it drives Arthur crazy, his free hand fisting in Eames’ shirt so he can jerk him forward, get him close enough to rub up against. It feels incredible, electric, but Eames’ mind trips back to the night in Arthur’s kitchen, the uncertainty that shot through him, and while he’s more than certain of Arthur’s intentions now, he still wants to know.

“Are you sure?” he murmurs against Arthur’s mouth. When he doesn’t answer, Eames pulls back to look at him. “Arthur,” he says, and Arthur blinks at him, eyes unfocused; “ _Arthur_ , look at me – are you sure?”

Arthur licks his lips slowly, although Eames can’t tell if he’s chasing the taste of blood or Eames himself. He nods slowly, and when Eames smiles at him, he flushes and lets his head falls forward against Eames’ shoulder, exposing the curve of his neck. Eames palms it gently, fingers brushing over the place where soft skin meets the prickly strands of Arthur’s hair.

“Hey,” he says, using his grip to tilt Arthur’s head back carefully; “Don’t be embarrassed. It’s okay to want this.” Arthur glances away, lips pressed tight together, but Eames thrusts his hips and Arthur goes limp, head thrown back, mouth parting on a moan. “Come on, talk to me. Tell me what you want, darling. Let me give it to you.”

For a split second Arthur doesn’t react; then he goes rigid in the circle of Eames’ arms and begins to struggle, thrashing like a wild animal. It knocks Eames back a few steps, but he’s bigger than Arthur, faster, so he grabs him, spins him, pins him against the car with hands and hips.

“If you don’t want to do this, you just have to say.” He presses his nose into the soft skin behind Arthur’s ear, feeling the small twitches that tell him Arthur’s fighting with himself rather than Eames.  “I’m not going to ask again, love. Tell me what you want.”

He feels more than sees Arthur give up. He slumps over the car, face pressed against the metal, arching under Eames’ weight.

“Want you in me,” he whispers, almost too quiet to hear. “Please, Eames – can you just –”

Eames is already tugging the jacket off Arthur’s shoulders hurriedly, grabbing the hem of his shirt and pushing it up so he can get his hands on the skin underneath. He’s surprised to find that Arthur is lithe and tough beneath his clothes; where Eames thought the baggy clothes hid skin and bones, they actually cover muscle, a secret strength.

There are bruises here too, purple and blue layered over fading yellow, green, brown. Arthur hisses when Eames presses his hands against them, but he arches into the touch too, desperately rubbing against Eames.

“Please,” he groans; “Please, fuck, Eames – you said –”

Eames presses his face into the top of Arthur’s spine and huffs a laugh against the bumps that stick up beneath the skin. “Now I’ve got you talking I’m not going to get you to shut up, am I?”

Arthur turns his face to look at him, eyes narrowed. “Make me,” he snaps, suddenly defiant, and Eames hurries to obey.

He makes Arthur step back a little, sets his hands flat on the roof. “Don’t move them,” he orders, and gets his fingers into Arthur’s belt loops to tug his jeans and underwear down to his ankles. He runs his hands up the back of Arthur’s legs, the hair tickling his palms, until he reaches the curve of Arthur’s ass, firm and solid and inviting.

“Get on with it,” Arthur demands, but when Eames strokes his thumb over the knob of his tailbone, Arthur melts into him, all bravado gone.

“That’s it,” he murmurs, fingers sliding down Arthur’s cleft to discover that Arthur’s hole is already slick. “Christ, you’re –” Eames presses his finger in a fraction then hesitates suddenly. “Did they do this to you to?” he asks quietly. “The people that beat you, did they – did they hurt you here?”

Arthur shakes his head. “No,” he says and while his voice is breathless it has a softer edge to it. “Did it myself. ‘M fine, Eames. Come on.”

“You did it yourself, hmm?” Eames starts with two fingers, and Arthur’s breath hitches at the sudden stretch. “Were you planning on coming over here? Were you planning on getting me to fuck you?”

Arthur nods jerkily, and when Eames scissors his fingers he makes a keening sound, high and desperate.

“Yeah, that’s it,” Eames says against his skin. “I want to hear you, love. You like this, don’t you? He punctuates it with another thrust of his fingers. “Getting beat up. Getting hurt. Feels good, doesn’t it?”

Arthur takes a rough breath, head dropping to the roof with a thud. “Come on,” he whines. “Don’t need any more. Please, Eames, I’m ready, _please_ , come on, just –”

Eames shushes him. “You get what I give you,” he says, but he pulls his fingers loose all the same and digs through his wallet for a condom before pushing into Arthur’s tight heat.

He doesn’t stop until he’s bottomed out, pressed right up against Arthur’s back. He wonders for a brief second what it feels like for Arthur, entirely naked while he is practically fully dressed, clothes scratching against his skin, then Arthur clenches around him and Eames thrusts mindlessly forward.

“Fuck,” he grits out. “Jesus, darling, you’re going to be the death of me.”

Arthur huffs out a laugh, but it goes high-pitched and breathy when Eames fucks into him. One hand twitches like he’s going to take it off the roof, so Eames slams his own down on top of it, fingers sliding over split knuckles, bloody skin.

“I said not to move them,” he growls against Arthur’s ear,

It makes Arthur boneless, body caving forward, the knobs of his spine rising from beneath skin like mountains from the sea. He writhes against Eames, shuddering, desperate, trying to gain some leverage but Eames just grinds into him, going so deep that Arthur is pushed to the balls of his feet with each thrust.

“Yeah,” Eames breathes, and leans in to lick the sweat trickling down Arthur’s neck. “You’re doing so well, love, nearly there.”

He can feel that Arthur’s getting close, the steady tightening around Eames’ cock, the tension in his body ratcheting up, and he fastens his mouth to the slope of Arthur’s neck, keeps going, until Arthur whimpers, “ _Eames_ ,” the noise ripped from his throat, and his spine arches in an impossible curve as he comes all over the door and himself.

“That’s it,” Eames whispers to him, turning his hands gentle as Arthur shakes. “You did so well, darling. So good for me.”

Arthur makes a pleased noise that rumbles through his chest. He shudders weakly when Eames starts moving again, but when Eames moves harder, faster, the familiar pleasure rising, he just turns his head so they can pant into each other’s mouths, sharing breath. When Eames comes he bites Arthur’s lip so hard all he can taste is copper.

They stay like that, pressed tight together, for a long moment. Eventually Eames shifts, reaching up to press his fingers to the bloody stain on Arthur’s lips. “You going to tell me what this was about?” he asks quietly.

“S’not about anything,” Arthur slurs, still draped over the car.

Eames snorts and steps back so he can turn Arthur around. In the garage’s fluorescent lights everything looks so much worse, the blood brighter, the bruises darker. He looks like someone took a bat to his face; he looks like a victim.

“Let’s get you inside,” Eames says, making his hands gentle as he tries to coax Arthur away from the car.

Arthur shakes his head. “I’m gonna head home,” he says, but when he tries to walk his legs go out from underneath him. Eames barely catches him before he hits the floor.

“Not a chance,” he tells him, trying to pull Arthur back up. “You’re staying here.”

Arthur just sags uselessly in his hold, as if that’ll make Eames let go. “I can’t,” he says insistently. “People will talk.”

Eames snorts. “If I was the sort of person who cared about that sort of thing, I wouldn’t have moved to bumfuck Louisiana to become a curiosity, would I?”

Arthur laughs, flashing teeth riddled with red, but he lets Eames ease him to his feet all the same. When he moves, Eames can see the come streaked across the car door, stark against the blue paintwork, and he chuckles to himself as he gets an arm around Arthur’s waist and carefully leads him inside.

-

Cobb comes to see him, off the clock but still in his uniform, brown shirt neatly pressed and tucked into his pants. He takes the beer Eames offers and sits at the kitchen table, hat laid neatly on the tablecloth next to the salt and pepper. If he notices the bloody rag on the counter, he doesn’t say anything.

“I heard you’ve been hanging out with Arthur,” he says as Eames potters about, half-heartedly tidying up.

Eames thinks about denying it, but he knows small towns: news travels fast and rumour is gospel. “He’s been helping me fix up my car,” he says instead.

Cobb raises an eyebrow. “Has he now,” he says, more statement than question. “Look, you’re new here and I don’t mean it in a bad way, but there’s a lot you don’t know about this town. About the people in it.”

“About Arthur, you mean.”

Cobb purses his lips, says, “You seem like a good man, Mr. Eames. I’d hate to see you get mixed up with the wrong crowd.”

Eames frowns at him. “And Arthur is the wrong crowd?”

Cobb sighs. “That boy’s had it rough,” he says and scratches at the back of his neck. “Most people would’ve just rolled over and died. Hell, I know I would have. But Arthur’s stubborn. Maybe too stubborn, if you ask some people. He likes his independence. Never asks for anything from anyone.”

Eames feels his eyebrows twitch upwards. “You say it like you know him.”

“My wife used to teach at the high school, before she died. She used to invite him over for dinner.” Cobb shrugs again. “I think she felt bad for him.”

Eames tries to think of something to say, to steer the conversation back to Arthur, but what comes out is, “I’m sorry about your wife.”

Cobb shrugs, says, “It was a while ago,” even as his mouth turns down at the corners. When he looks up again, the sadness has been carefully smoothed away. “Look, the things Arthur’s involved in – you don’t want to get caught up in that.”

“Things like what?” Eames asks.

His mind is already filling in the blanks: drugs, guns, girls; but none of them seem to fit with what he knows of Arthur: Arthur, with his bruises and his leather jacket, his wide eyes and lopsided smile. _Not the best guy_ , Ariadne had said, but he’ll be damned if Arthur isn’t something more than that.

Cobb sets his beer down on the table. “Maybe you should ask him yourself, seeing as how you too are so close and all.”

Eames snorts but it’s more exasperated than amused. “Did you come here to warn me off, Sherriff?” he asks.

Cobb tilts his head, watching him silently. “No,” he says after a moment. He gets up, chair scraping over the floor, and walks to the door. His boots make heavy thuds against the boards. “I came to tell you to tread carefully. You don’t know that boy like I do.”

Eames narrows his eyes, surprised. “Seems to me,” he says as Cobb reaches for the handle, “Like you don’t know that boy at all.”

-

“We’re going for a drive,” Arthur tells him the next time he comes by.

It’s October but the weather’s still good enough that Eames can spend hours outside without a coat. Arthur’s graduated from worn t-shirts to thicker button downs, all of them soft plaid that feels good beneath Eames’ fingers.

“Are we going anywhere in particular?” Eames asks him as Arthur drags him to the garage, one hand wrapped tight around Eames’ wrist, the other gripping the keys.

Arthur just throws him the keys and gets in, watching Eames silently as he starts the car and pulls out onto the street. Out of the corner of his eye, Eames sees him slouch low in his seat, spread his legs wide so that his knee bumps up against the door. He lets his hand fall against the leather, and Eames can see where the skin of his knuckles is red and bruised.

“What did you do to your hand, love?” he asks over the roar of the engine.

Arthur tilts his head back against the seat, takes a deep breath. His lips are dry and chapped. “Keep driving,” he says, and turns his face away.

Eames takes them out of town, along the winding roads that don’t lead anywhere but to the next tiny town. Out here there’s nothing, just fields of corn and wheat, tiny houses with dried up front yards: the kind of endless landscape that Eames didn’t think existed outside of movies. He winds the window down and the warm air sweeps in, bringing with it the smell of the harvest and beyond that the faint scent of the fields burning.

They go for a long time, long enough that Eames hand starts to ache from holding the wheel too tight. But eventually, Arthur sits up, taps at his window, and says, “Pull over.”

They’re in the middle of nowhere: a field of wheat, golden stalks dancing a little in the autumn breeze. Arthur jumps out the moment the car stops, stalks away to the edge of the field, and Eames follows more slowly. There’s no noise but the endless chirping of the crickets and the wind sweeping through the field.  He slams the door shut and a flock of birds breaks from the trees.

Arthur turns to glance back at him. In the sunlight he seems as foreign as Eames himself, a foreboding figure against a sea of golden wheat.

“Hurry up,” he calls, and steps into the field. Eames watches him crash through the wheat, until suddenly Arthur stops and then vanishes from view.

He follows the trail of trampled wheat to the heart of the field where he finds a big patch of flattened stems and Arthur at its centre, stretched out, arms above his head. The hem of his shirt has ridden up a little, exposing a long strip of pale skin. How he’s not tanned from the Louisiana summer, Eames doesn’t know. He grins when he catches Eames looking.

“See something you like?” he drawls, the stalk of wheat clenched in his teeth bobbing in the air.

Eames huffs out a laugh. “You know the answer to that,” he says, and drops down into the dirt next to Arthur’s legs. “The things I’d do to you, darling.”

“So do them.” Arthur rolls onto his front, arching his back in a sinuous curve. “I know you want to.”

Eames puts a hand on Arthur’s calf, feels the scratchy denim beneath his fingers. “Do _you_ want to?”

Arthur glances over his shoulder, and the light reflects off the sharp line of his nose, the curve of his cheek. He looks like one of the boys Eames used to see on street corners, curled up in old men’s laps in clubs; the kind of boy his ma always told him to stay away from.

“You chicken or something?” Arthur asks, sounding cagey but smiling that lopsided smile all the same.

Eames frowns at him. “I don’t know if I’ve told you this, love ,” he says, “But you are a very strange person.”

Arthur laughs, jiggles his leg a little. “You’re the one that wants to fuck me.”

Eames kneads Arthur’s calf, pressing his thumb in hard so that the muscle jumps. “You sure about that?”

Arthur’s eyebrow twitches upwards. “Sure, I’m sure,” he says, and reaches back to grab Eames’ wrist, tugging his hand higher until it rests against the swell of his backside.

“Oh,” Eames drawls, “Is that what you want?”

He rubs his palm over Arthur’s jeans, traces the line where Arthur’s thighs meet his ass. The fabric is damp beneath his fingers, gritty from the dirt, and Eames squeezes hard enough that Arthur’s head drops down into the dirt.

“Come on,” he says quietly and wriggles, pushing back into Eames’ hand. “Eames, do it.”

 _So demanding_ , Eames thinks, but he still slips his fingers into Arthur’s belt loops and inches his jeans down slowly, dips his fingers into the hot space between Arthur’s cheeks and laughs when Arthur twitches.

“This what you want, hmm?” Eames asks, leaning in to press his mouth to all that pale skin. “Out here where everyone can see?”

“No one can see,” Arthur snaps, but his voice goes breathless when Eames’ finger drags over his hole. “Fuck, man, come on. Get on with it.”

Eames obliges, carefully pulling Arthur’s cheeks apart so he can nose between them, lick wet and warm over him until Arthur is shaking and shuddering with every pass of Eames’ tongue. When Eames presses his fingers slowly past the slick ring of muscle, Arthur’s hands clench up handfuls of dirt and he makes a bitten-off noise.

“Don’t be like that,” Eames coos. “Come on, love, let me hear you.”

Arthur turns his head away petulantly, so Eames scissors his fingers until Arthur bucks and moans, loud enough that the crickets stop their noise for a second. Eames licks around his fingers in approval, murmurs a quiet, “Good boy.”

It draws another noise from Arthur, higher and more desperate, and Eames feels an answering throb in his cock. He carefully adds another finger, twisting and Arthur clenches down, panting harshly.

“Eames,” he groans, tossing his head; “Can you – fuck, I want – you gotta –”

One hand starts to dip beneath his body, but Eames gets hold of his wrist and tugs it away. “No,” he snaps. “You’re going to come like this, from my fingers.”

Arthur’s legs tremble, but he doesn’t say anything, just arches back into Eames and the insistent press of his hands. Eames takes it as acquiescence, and keeps going, works himself deeper into Arthur until he’s bumping up against the hard nub of his prostrate on every push. Arthur just groans, sweat beading in the dip of his back as he pushes back against Eames, over and over, until his whole body trembles violently and he comes with a shout.

In the silence that stretches, Eames pulls his fingers free. Arthur makes a soft sound but Eames shushes him. “You did so well,” he murmurs as he carefully inches Arthur’s jeans back up his legs.

Arthur hums quietly, and stretches again, that same slow motion that brought this on in the first place. When he rolls over, there’s dust in his hair, smeared across his face.

“Thanks,” he croaks out, and pushes up on his elbows to look at Eames. His eyes flicker over Eames’ crotch. “You can fuck me if you want.”

Eames snorts, even as his cock twitches. “You sound really excited about the prospect.”

Arthur laughs. “Wouldn’t say it if I didn’t want you to,” he points out. He spreads his legs wide and thrusts up awkwardly. “Come on, don’t pussy out on me.”

Eames eyes him: his hooded gaze, the wet stain on his crotch. “When you put it like that,” he drawls.  

Arthur grins, hooks a leg around Eames. “Well get over here then,” he orders, and lets Eames push him back down into the dirt.

-

Later, when they’re at Arthur’s house, sitting in the living room drinking cold beers in the flickering light of the TV, Eames leans back in his chair and takes a deep breath.

“The Sherriff came to see me,” he says, careful to keep his voice steady and his eyes fixed on the screen.

“Oh yeah?” Arthur says casually from where he’s sprawled out on the couch. “What’d he want?”

“He told me to stay away from you.”

Arthur laughs. “Well, I’m glad you didn’t take his advice.”

Eames glances over at him, takes in the spread of his legs, the way his head is tilted back against the armrest, the blank look on his face. “He said you were involved in some things.”

Arthur takes a long sip of beer, not even looking away from the screen. Eames watches the long line of his throat as he swallows. “He tell you what things?”

“No,” Eames says. “But I can guess.”

He waits for a reaction, denial or anger or something, but Arthur just turns to look at him, takes another swig. “Go on then,” he says. “Guess.”

Eames sets his bottle down on the table, leans forward to rest his elbows on his knees. “At first I thought it was drugs. Selling them, I mean. You’re too smart for to take them. But then I figured if you were doing that, you’d probably be running this town.”

Arthur raises an eyebrow, but Eames can’t tell if it’s amused or bored. “That all you got?” he asks.

“You’re a fighter,” Eames continues. “Bare-knuckled, obviously. I’m guessing there’s a ring somewhere in town. You like to go and get the shit kicked out of you every week.”

Arthur makes a noise that could be a laugh. “You make it sound like Fight Club,” he says.

“Are you trying to tell me it’s not, darling?”

Arthur’s gaze flicks down and away, and his mouth tightens into a thin line. “Anything else?”

Eames shrugs. “Just the stealing,” he says, and finally Arthur’s head snaps up, surprised. “That’s why Cobb’s all over you – because you’re a thief.”

“You sure about that?” Arthur asks. Eames can tell he’s trying to sound nonchalant but the tremor of his hand around the bottle gives him away.

“Takes one to know one,” Eames tells him bluntly.

Arthur’s lips curl, eyes glinting: oh, he’s angry now. “Yeah, it does, doesn’t it?” he growls. “I know you’re not a writer, Eames. I figured you might be a painter, but why keep it a secret unless you’re painting things that you shouldn’t?” He sits up and leans forward to set the beer down on the floor. “So you’re a forger, aren’t you? And a thief. You’re out here hiding from something – or someone.”

Eames nods, unsurprised. “I knew you’d figure it out,” he says quietly. “Of course you would – you’re so smart, Arthur, maybe smarter than anyone I’ve ever met. Which is why I don’t get it.”

“Get what?”

“Why you’re still here,” Eames explains. “You could get out of here, you know. You could make something of yourself.”

“And do what?” Arthur’s on his feet now, stalking towards Eames. “I’m not like you. I don’t have any skills or a fancy degree. I’m never leaving this town.” He pulls a face. “At least, not alive.”

“Oh, don’t be so fucking dramatic,” Eames snaps. He gets up, meets Arthur in the middle. “You just don’t want to try. You’re content to stay here in this hick town and waste yourself.”

Arthur shoves him back angrily. “Fuck you. You don’t know jack shit about me.”

“Don’t I?” Eames pushes himself into Arthur’s space. “I think I’ve got you figured out. Your parents died when you were little and there wasn’t anyone to look after you so you looked after yourself. You got used to being independent. It’s part of who you are now, who you’ve made yourself into. But you feel like you’re losing it sometimes, like this town is driving you out your mind, so you fight because it gives you power over people and you steal because it makes you feel smarter, less useless, like you can actually do something.”

“Fuck you,” Arthur says again, but this close Eames’ can see where his eyes are wide and panicked. “You don’t know anything.”

“Let me help you,” Eames finds himself saying. “Please, darling, you could be so much more, if you just give yourself a chance. If you just let me help.”

At his side, Arthur’s hand clenches into a fist. “Get out,” he says, and his voice is low and angry. “Get out of my fucking house.”

“And if I say no?”

Arthur moves so fast he’s a blur. His punch catches Eames in the nose, hard enough that his head snaps back sharply, blood exploding. He doesn’t go down but it’s a close thing.

“Fuck,” he grits out, hand coming up to feel for the break he’s sure is there. “What the hell, Arthur?”

Arthur just glares. “I said get out,” he snarls. “Leave me alone. I don’t want you coming round here again.”

They watch each other silently, Arthur’s hand still clenched in a fist, Eames’ blood dripping onto the carpet. _A true standoff_ , Eames thinks, and then wonders how the hell they got here. There’s something about the tight set of Arthur’s shoulders that says it was probably inevitable.

Eventually Eames takes a breath, steps away, the floor creaks beneath him as he heads towards the door. When he gets there, he pauses and glances back at Arthur, still standing in the living room, head bowed. He looks like a statue, cast in stone, but he glances up when Eames speaks.

“Why does it have to be like this?”

Arthur’s smile is painful to look at. “Ain’t you heard?” he says. “I’m no good.”

-

The warmth of summer dissipates into a cool autumn, and the rain sweeps in, water pouring from the gutters, turning the mud slick, the roads to rivers. Everything is dim for days on end, dark clouds blocking the sun, and Eames questions if he ever left England at all.

He ends up in the diner more often than not, and on the three week anniversary of the last time he saw Arthur, turning away from him in the kitchen light, he orders the biggest stack of pancakes the cook can make and tears through them until he feels sick to his stomach.

Ariadne watches him with a look of disgust on her face. “You okay?” she asks, and when Eames stares innocently back at her, she sighs. “Just – you seem sad, is all.”

“I’m fine, love,” Eames says, but he has to look away from her knowing gaze. “Don’t worry about me.”

Ariadne cocks her hip, tilts her head. “It’s Arthur, isn’t it?”

Eames tries not to flinch. On the other side of the diner, Cobb is looking his way and when their eyes meet, he nods, expression smug and satisfied. Eames stabs another piece of pancake so hard his fork scrapes harshly across the plate.

“What makes you say that?”

Ariadne rolls her eyes. “It’s a small town, Eames. News travels fast.” She leans in to peer at him. “What happened?”

Eames shakes his head. “Nothing. Just me and my big mouth as always.”

Ariadne huffs out a breath, taps her fingers against the back of the booth. “If there’s one thing I know about Arthur,” she says, “it’s that he doesn’t suffer fools gladly. So if it’s taken this long to chase him away, you probably have a good chance of getting him back.”

Eames hums around his mouthful. “Aren’t you a wise one.”

Ariadne’s mouth pulls into a smug smile. “Obviously. I’m going to be valedictorian.”

When Eames laughs, she winks and flips her hair. Across the diner someone calls her name, a hand waving for her attention, and she smiles apologetically before moving away. But at the last second she turns back, shoes squeaking on the floor as she pivots.

“Hey,” she says, “You finish your story yet?”

Eames tilts his head up to look at her and in the too-bright light of the overheads she looks old, motherly, in a way that makes his heart clench a little. “Not quite yet,” he tell her, and spears another piece of pancake. “I can’t figure out how it ends.”

-

Here’s the thing about the life Eames leads: it claws at you, rips deep into your bones, chews you up and spits you out. It grabs hold and doesn’t let go until you’re dead. He’s just surprised it took this long.

It’s early, a misty December morning, and Eames is coming back from a run, sweat drying on his forehead as he unlocks the door and steps inside. The light of the phone on the hallway table is blinking, a steady flash of red. Eames stares at it for a moment, surprised: no one ever calls him here, but he presses down on the button anyway.

“ _Eames_ ,” Yusuf’s voice says, loud and panicked. “Listen to me. Nash gave you up. They got to him somehow. They’ll be coming for you.”

But it’s too late, there are already hands on him, pulling him into the living room where they throw him down onto the hard wooden floor. Eames fights as hard as he can but there’s a fist in his stomach that sends him sprawling back, landing with a thud.

He stares up into a familiar face. He knows this man; he’s one of Saito’s, ex-military, a hired gun. Bigger and stronger and faster than Eames, ten times as deadly. He thinks about screaming, but there’s no one out here to hear him.

“Mr. Eames,” the man says, and his voice is flat and cold. “Saito would like to talk to you.”

 _Talk_ ; Eames knows what that means. They always show the new guys what happens if you cross Saito, cross Proclus: busted faces, broken bones, blood dripping onto a tarp in a warehouse where no one can hear you scream. No one ever finds the bodies.

It sends him to his feet again, barrelling forwards, but the man is faster, pulling a gun from somewhere. It makes a popping noise and pain tears through Eames’ arm, bright and blinding. He falls back again, whimpering as blood seeps through his shirt, trickling down his arm.

The man just blinks at him. “Next time,” he says, “I’ll aim it somewhere it’s really going to hurt.”

Eames takes deep gulping breaths, trying to put pressure on his arm and hissing when it sends sharp stabs of pain through him. “Just take the paintings,” he says, nodding towards the wall. “They’re all there. Just take them.”

The guy shakes his head. “This isn’t about the paintings any more. You’re coming with me.”

He motions with the gun. Eames tries to get to his feet but everything’s shaky, blurry with the wave of dizziness that hits him. The man takes a heavy step towards him, face pulling down into a frown.

“I can’t,” Eames says, holding out a hand to ward him off. “Just – give me a second, alright? You did just shoot me.”

Surprisingly the man backs off, and Eames sits back on his haunches, desperately trying to figure out what to do. It’s a no-win situation, at least not for him, and his hands shake at the thought of his impending death.

“Come on,” the guy says after a moment, all business. “Time to go.”

Eames takes a deep breath, steels himself, but distantly he hears the faint creaking sound that signals someone opening the front door. Then Arthur says, “Hey,” his voice hard, and there’s a bang, loud and echoing, and Eames closes his eyes to the splatter of blood as the guy’s head explodes. The body falls with a thump.

Arthur’s by his side in a second, hands gentle on Eames’ face, skirting the wound on his arm. “Jesus, Eames.

Are you okay?”

Eames blinks up at him. It’s been five weeks since he saw Arthur, and he looks almost the same, except for the yellow circling his right eye, the swelling along his cheek. He looks amazing.

“M’fine, darling,” Eames says, his own hand coming up to touch Arthur face. “I guess I should thank you for coming to my rescue.”

Arthur glances over his shoulder at the body. “What did he want?” He narrows his eyes at Eames. “You stole something from him, didn’t you?”

“Not from him.” Eames takes a shaky breath and inches away from Arthur. “Fuck, someone’s going to have heard that. I’ve got to get out of here before the cops come.”

“It’ll take them a while.” Eames shakes his head jerkily, and Arthur leans forward to rest a hand on his shoulder. “We’ve got some time. Just breathe. I’ma clean you up.”

He disappears into the kitchen and comes back with the first aid kit from under the sink. He sets about cleaning Eames’ arm, wiping away the blood that’s drying tacky on his skin. Eames holds in his hiss when Arthur presses too hard, the pain radiating up his nerves.

“Relax,” Arthur murmurs. “Let me do this. Can’t have it getting infected.”

Eames lets him work, watching Arthur’s steady hands as he cleans the cut, careful tacks it back together with a row of butterfly stitches. It’s a neater job than he could do, and Eames wonders where Arthur learnt to do this, if it was as a child, patching himself up from his father’s fists, or later, carefully cleaning his wounds after a few rounds in the ring.

“Thank you, darling,” he says as Arthur wraps a bandage around his bicep. “For everything. But I think I’d better be on my way.”

Arthur’s head snaps up. “You’re leaving?”

Eames snorts. “There’s a dead man in my living room, Arthur. I don’t Cobb’s stupid enough to mistake him for anything else.”

Arthur’s face twists sourly. “Fine,” he says. “But I’m coming with you.”

“What?” Eames peers at him, but Arthur just stares back, unwavering. “Darling, I can’t let you do that.”

Arthur’s eyebrows tick upwards. “You think I’m gonna let you leave without me?”

“What happened to never leaving this town alive?”

Arthur snorts. “Well, this guy I met told me I was being dramatic.”

Eames’ hand moves of his own accord, coming up to grasp Arthur’s chin tight. “Are you sure?” he asks, tugging until Arthur looks at him head-on. “Are you sure?”

“All my life,” Arthur says, “I’ve been told I’m never gonna amount to anything, that I’m not good.” He looks away, a faint flush rising in his cheeks. “You’re the first person that’s ever told me different.”

Eames takes a shaky breath. “Darling,” he breathes, and leans in to knock their foreheads together. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were going soft on me.”

Arthur’s mouth twitches like he’s going to smile. “Come on, old man,” he says. “Let’s get outta here.”

They get up together, and stand staring down at the corpse on the floor. Eames frowns at it. “What do we do with the body?”

Arthur shrugs. “Put it in the trunk,” he says, and spits. “We can take it down to the river. The gators’ll take care of the rest.”

Eames feels a laugh bubbling up in his chest, halfway to hysteric. “Sounds like you’ve done this before, darling.”

Arthur rolls his eyes. “Just pick up his legs, Eames. I’ll get the arms.”

He steps forward, but Eames grabs him, fingers sinking into the soft fabric of his shirt. “Wait,” he hisses; “ _Wait_. My car doesn’t work.”

“Jesus.” Arthur scrubs a hand over his face. “Just – stay here. I’ll be back.”

And he disappears out the door, leaving Eames with bloody hands and a pair of dead eyes staring back at him. In the silence, the noise of the crickets rising up like a roar.

“I’m sorry,” Eames says to the body.

The man stares back, blood still trickling from the hole in his head. Eames crouches down to press his fingers to the man’s eyes and pulls the lids down. The skin feels clammy beneath his fingertips. He tries not to hurl.

The door slams. “Who you talking to?” Arthur asks as he comes into the living room.

“No one.”

The look Arthur gives him is disbelieving, but all he says is, “Car’s out front.” He crosses to the body, carefully slides his arms under it. When Eames doesn’t move, he huffs out a breath. “Eames, _come on_. Time to get gone.”

Eames just stares at him, at the body. “I’ve never killed anyone before,” he says.

Arthur’s brow pulls down into a frown. “You didn’t kill anyone. I did.”

“And I don’t understand how you can be so calm about it,” Eames snaps, voice wavering a little. Arthur blinks at him and in the silence that stretches, Eames sighs. “Are you a psychopath, darling? Is that it? Have I been shacking up a serial killer?”

Arthur rolls his eyes. “And you said I was dramatic.” He reaches for the body again. “Stop being such a fuckin’ baby. Pick up his legs.”

Eames tries, he really does, but his hands are shaking again, vision going dark and spotty, and he nearly trips over his own feet in his haste to get away. He leans against the wall, breath desperate and shaky, head tilted back to the ceiling, and tries to imagine that he’s anywhere but here.

Arthur’s footsteps sound on the boards, and Eames feels the air shift as he steps in close. “Hey,” he says, grabbing Eames’ face. “We don’t have to do this. We can wait for Cobb to get here, explain what happened. You got attacked, I shot the guy. No harm, no foul.”

Eames shakes his head. “Cobb’s too good to let it go.”

Arthur shrugs. “Probably.” His thumb brushed a line along Eames’ cheek. “But it’s up to you, Eames. What do you wanna do?”

Eames stares at him, at his downturned mouth, the bruise shading the hollow of his eye. He thinks of how they got here: Arthur’s hands on his car, Arthur’s blood on his fingers, Arthur’s mouth against his; and he thinks of his options: calling Cobb and cold handcuffs around his wrists – or Arthur. Arthur by his side, Arthur in his bed, Arthur, Arthur, _Arthur_ , everywhere, all the time.

“Let’s go.”

Together they get the body up, and stagger out into the morning air. The mist has cleared but it’s still cold, still crisp, and Eames slips a little on the damp wood of the porch. Arthur’s car is at the curb. It doesn’t look like much: an old blue Ford with rust lining the doors, but the trunk is more than big enough for the body. Eames stares down at it, folded up like an accordion, and tries not to puke again.

Arthur puts a hand on Eames’ back, just above the dip of his spine. “Come on,” he says quietly, and slams the trunk down

Eames lets himself be herded into the car, and he watches as Arthur slides into the driver’s seat, wraps his hands tight around the wheel. There’s a spot of blood on the inside of his wrist, a smear of red against his pale skin, but Eames can’t look away from the silhouette of Arthur’s face against the light of the rising sun. He turns to look at Eames, and his smile is sharp and bright.

“You ready?” he asks, hand straying to the key.

Eames licks his finger and reaches over to rub away the blood from Arthur’s skin. “Let’s get out of here, darling,” he says, and laughs when Arthur revs the engine.

He’s got a dead man in the trunk and Arthur in the seat next to him, smiling like he’s won a prize. It’s not quite driving off into the sunset, but Eames will take what he can get.

**Author's Note:**

> [This](https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/originals/c1/89/d1/c189d141c53390e7f8ccad6fc93f1178.jpg) is Arthur's painting, by William H. Johnson, one of America's foremost African-American artists.


End file.
